And So This is Christmas
by scrambled-eggs-at-midnight
Summary: Just one more Christmas in a crappy motel. But at least there's a tree this time.


**A/N: I wasn't going to post this, but blah. Christmas shmoop and Wee!chesters time. Yaaaaaaaay. /shot. **

**Merry Christmas, Internet.**

**Disclaimer: Is not mine ever.**

"So, what do you think?"

"Wha—?"

Dean lifts his head off of the hard table (how did he fall asleep like that, he's lying in a puddle of spilled milk, for Chrissakes) and blinks blearily at Sam, who's stepped back to admire his work and dust pine needles off of the front of his shirt. They land on top of his sneakers, green-on-white, and Dean is more than a little confused. Because, from what he's learned in his twelve years of living, pine needles do not belong inside. Pine needles belong on trees, which in turn belong in a forest. And Dean's pretty sure that forests belong outside.

So, pine needles. Inside. Not right.

Dean scrubs at his eyes and tears away from his brother's shoes to look up at Sam's earnest face. The needles have made it into his hair, too.

"What do I think of what?" Dean asks, coughing into his sleeve and scrubbing dried milk off of his face.

Sam points excitedly towards the corner Dean had left him in an hour ago, before he accidently fell asleep. "Look, Dean, I finished it!"

"Huh?" Dean follows the direction of Sam's fingers.

It's a tree. Well, kind of a tree. Actually, okay, it's not much of a tree at all. The branches are too thin, the top is wobbly, and most of the pine needles have attached themselves to Sam as opposed to actual branches. It looks like a reject from the Charlie Brown Christmas special.

"Sam, what the—?" Dean starts to ask, but then he looks more closely. There are chunks of paper hanging off of the edges of the tree, colored painstakingly with the Crayons that came with the kiddie meal Sam had gotten at Burger King a week ago, tipping the thing precariously towards the right. A couple of Dad's boot laces have been draped around the edges, too, like mock garland, and—

"Sam, did you hang silver bullets off of that thing?"

Sam pouts. "They're shiny! Like ornaments."

"Sam," Dean says, "we need those to kill the werewolf."

"I'll take them down tomorrow," Sam says earnestly. "I promise!" He suddenly looks worried. "Dad won't be mad, will he? That I used his bullets?" He now looks at his tree with slight trepidation, and Dean has to sigh a little.

"No, it's fine," he says, even though he really doesn't know. "Just… why?"

"It's Christmas Eve!" Sam says, sounding shocked. "Did you _forget?_ How did you _forget?"_

"Oh," is all Dean says. He _had _forgotten.

Except now that he thinks about it, it was kind of obvious. All of the motels have lights hanging around somewhere, even the really bad ones, and every single TV they've seen this week has some kind of holiday special playing on the channels that actually come in, so maybe it's a little bit obvious and Dean's just oblivious sometimes.

But they _are _chasing a werewolf. Dean's pretty sure that werewolves and Christmas aren't supposed to go together, so it's totally a legitimate mistake.

"I got you a present!" Sam says, his mood completely swinging back around so fast Dean's afraid the kid's going to give himself whiplash. Same bounces away from his tree to go digging around in his bag. "Well, I had to make it, actually, but that's okay, right?"

"I didn't—" Dean starts, but then Sam's shoving a poorly-wrapped package into his hands, beaming, and Dean has to shut up for a minute to look at the gift.

He peels the edge of the newspaper back carefully and blinks.

He's holding a small, sloppy, PlayDough angel, molded carefully with clumsy hands, its broad wings curling down slightly and even a little halo-like ring shoved down on its head.

Dean studies it carefully, turning it gently over in his hands. It's bright yellow, with cracks around the edges and open at the bottom, like its maker had shaped its skirt around a cup. Dean traces his fingers over where he can see the little indents from Sammy's hands.

"Wow," is all Dean can say.

"I used up the last of the PlayDough," Sam confesses. "But it was kind of old anyway, right? Do you like it?"

"I… yeah, Sammy," Dean says. "Thanks."

"Dean, is Santa gonna come?" Sam asks, eyes wide. "I know he didn't last year, or they year before, or—well, he never came, but maybe he didn't know where we were. Do you think he'll find us this year?"

"I don't know, buddy," Dean says. He thinks he's probably being kind of cruel, letting the kid get his hopes up, but he can't bring himself to tell Sam the truth. That Santa's probably never going to come because they're a hunter's kids, and John remembers Christmas even less than Dean does.

"Hey," he says instead, "let's see if there's anything on TV."

He uses the last of the milk to make them hot chocolate, and they sit together on the motel couch, drinking it out of chipped mugs and watching the fuzzy picture of _It's a Wonderful Life._

If he ever met an angel, Dean muses, he'd like to meet one like Clarence. He thinks that he and Sammy could use a Clarence right about now. Dad probably needs some divine interference more, though, so Dean would share his new angel buddy, and anyway, it would be a bigger job for the angel and they probably should get challenged now and then. Just to make sure they don't get bored and go off to do something besides helping people.

Dean sips at his hot chocolate and watches Harry Baily walk through George's door. When everyone starts singing, he laces his fingers through Sam's. The kid's fighting to keep his eyes open, because he hates falling asleep during movies, but he's pretty much losing.

As soon as George closes Clarence's book and "Auld Lang Syne" fades into the rolling credits, Dean shakes Sam's shoulder and starts looking around for the remote.

"Bed time, kid," he says, shutting the TV off.

"Aw," Sam mumbles, but it doesn't hold much weight. It's probably just for show, anyway, since he looks pretty damn tired.

"Wait," Sam says as Dean starts to carry him towards their bed, "wait, put me down."

Dean obeys, and Sam runs to the table and lifts Dean's angel. "Can we put it on the tree?" he asks. "So that Santa will know it's for presents."

Dean's heart pangs a little. "Sure, bud," he says. "Can you reach?"

Sam stands on his tip-toes and settles the angel on the top of the tree. "There," he says when he's done. Then he bolts for the bed and dives under the covers. "Hurry up, Dean!" he says. "Santa won't come 'till you're asleep!"

Dean checks the locks on the door and makes sure that the gun on the bedside table is loaded and ready. Then he crawls into bed with Sam, who's already so far gone that a break-in probably wouldn't even make him roll over.

Dean stares at the ceiling for a while, though, because sleep has decided to be a bitch. He keeps thinking about that movie, about how George did all that stuff for everybody else all of the time and didn't expect anything in return. He looks at Sammy and dares to think that maybe he could be like that, too.

It's hard. It's really hard. He doesn't always like watching Sam, doesn't like having to play with him and keep him entertained and give him the last cookie whenever Dad feels like they've been good enough to deserve a treat. Being a big brother is definitely not the easiest job in the world.

Sam sighs a little and snuggles closer to Dean's arm, burying his noes further into his blankets.

Okay. So being a big brother might have its perks.

Sam's tree sparkles a little, if he looks at it the right way, with the light from the streetlamps outside coming through the curtains and glinting off of the silver bullets.

The little angel on the top looks pretty content, actually, framed by the glow.

Dean hears the bell at the concierge's desk ring from far away, and he hopes that some real angel somewhere is getting his wings.


End file.
